


Perfect

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Asshole Power Dynamics, M/M, Yuri Plisetsky Is A Little Shit, asshole Victor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:56:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11500320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: For lileura, who requested a take on the development of Yuri and Victor's relationship that explores the darker nooks of their characters. I hope you like :)





	Perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lileura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lileura/gifts).



“What the fuck, are you fucking dumb or something!” Yuri stares at him from the locker room door. He’s still in his black practice gear, his skates dangling by the laces from one arm.

Victor takes a pointed swig from his flask. No junior squirt with a bowl cut’s gonna tell him what to do.

Yuri’s eyes widen and his mouth opens.

“What,” Victor taunts.

“Are you fucking stupid? Everyone knows drinking harms your performance.”

“Oh, really? Fancy that, I never knew. Too many medals to distract me, thank god there’s a fifth grader who can set me straight.”

“Seven,” Yuri says and glares. “And anyway, you’re still stupid.”

“Are you seeing anyone breathe down my neck, by any chance? Who’s a serious enough threat—Georgi? You?”

Yuri stares. “Give me some, or I’m gonna tell Yakov.”

“Are you sure?” Victor says with an eye-roll. “What if it harms your _performance_?”

Yuri shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He turns to walk out of the changing room—presumably to go snitch.

Victor shakes the flask behind his back. “Here. Don’t be a prude.”

Yuri turns around and takes a big gulp, looking right up at Victor while he does it. Is Victor supposed to be impressed that Yuri doesn’t sputter? It’s kind of hard to be impressed, when the person who’s supposed to impress you reaches half-way up your chest.

“No one’s breathing down my neck either.” Yuri wipes his mouth and hands back the flask. “I was world champion last year, and I’ll be the world champion this year, too.”

“Junior world champion.”

“You keep telling yourself that, old man.” Yuri looks at him defiantly. “I’ll be in seniors in no time. Your days are numbered—especially if you walk around with booze in your sports bag.”

“Listen, you little shit-”

“Oh, yeah?” Yuri raises an eyebrow and thrusts his chin out. “What’cha gonna do to make me? Drink at me some more?”

 _The fucking nerve_! Victor sees red, and lashes out. By the time he’s back to his senses, he’s pressing Yuri into the lockers and has one hand on his throat.

Yuri’s looking up at him wide-eyed, his breathing shallow, pulse fast against Victor’s palm.

“What are _you_ gonna do,” Victor spits out.

Yuri swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs under Victor’s thumb. “Kick you in the nuts, if you don’t let me go.”

Victor chuckles, because nice try—like he can’t see for himself how scared Yuri really is. “You’re gonna kick me if I let you,” he says and wedges his thigh between Yuri’s, pinning him fully.

Yuri spits in his face at the same time as he grinds his hips into him—and oh, isn’t _that_ a surprise. _The utter shit_ , Victor thinks as his hand tightens on Yuri’s throat.

“What the hell is going on here?” Yakov booms from the door. “Victor—you’re twenty-five years old. A three-time world champion. Shame! Letting a thirteen-year-old get to you.”

“Fourteen,” Yuri hisses from under Victor’s hand.

“And you—know your place and don’t annoy Victor,” Yakov says. “Vitya, let him go.”

Victor does, but not before he wipes his face with a hand and wipes it into Yuri’s shirt.

“So, are you going to handle this like professionals? Can I trust you both to behave?”

Yuri snorts. “Kind of a stretch, calling him a professional-”

“Shut the fuck up, you little shit-”

“Yuri! Vitya! Jesus Christ, it’s like I’m teaching kindergarten!” Yakov throws his hands in the air. “If you weren’t both such good skaters, I swear to god I’d toss you both out by your ear.”

Yuri narrows his eyes. “I need to go anyway. My grandpa’s waiting for me.” He makes quick work of his bag and coat and walks out, still in his black tights and t-shirt. _He’s gonna freeze his ass in the street_ , Victor thinks. _Serves him well_.

And then Yakov launches himself into a lecture on how Victor’s older and should know better than this and blaaah-blah-blah bullshit.

Victor tunes it out and keeps changing. Maybe the little shit had a good idea, making his escape early—at least he’ didn’t get stuck at the other end of _this_.

“Of course, Yakov,” he says, his big smile on, when Yakov finally winds down. “I don’t know what got into me. You’re completely right. He’s just a kid; I shouldn’t let it get to me.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Yakov harrumphs on his way out the door.

By God, if the Skating Federation money didn’t help so much, Victor would be done with this has-been socialist fossil. But he knows how the Americans have it: Weir had managed to complain, somewhere between getting drunk together and letting Victor fuck him. Victor would never— _never_ —be reduced to that: an Olympic athlete, and not having enough for his cell phone bill.

He digs in his bag for his flask.

It’s fucking empty. Fuck.

  
________________

 

Victor pours himself a glass of vodka and sinks into his couch, his dog’s head resting on his leg. He’s not thinking of anything in particular save for how grateful he is to finally close the door to his apartment and relax.

Fucking Yuri, and fucking Yakov.

Yakov lecturing him like he’s five, and Yuri getting into his business. Victor knows what he can handle, damn it, this isn’t his first rodeo. He only drinks after practice, to wind down: he certainly needs it, after spending all day having to play at being polite to fucking idiots.

And Yuri’s fucking full of shit. If drinking impacted Victor’s performance, Victor would be the first to know. He’s been skating for twenty years, the last fifteen of which, competitively.

Fucking brat.

The very least he can do is show Victor some respect.

Victor takes a sip from his vodka and pulls out his dick, and pictures Yuri kneeling between his legs: with his tongue darting forward and Victor’s hand pulling on his tangled hair.

  
________________

 

“So, I got you this,” Yuri says two days later in the locker room. “I wanted to apologize, and shit.”

 _This_ is a half-full bottle of crap convenience store vodka.

“Where did you get it?”

“I stole it from my grandpa.” Yuri shrugs. “So, how about? We can go to your place. No one needs to know.”

Victor looks between the bottle and Yuri, then back at the bottle.

“Is that how I look like to you?” Like he’d drink any cheap swill as long as it’s got booze in it.

Yuri isn’t fazed. “So, what do you say: your place? I hear your couch is real good,” he says, very obviously going for sounding off-handed, and very obviously failing.

 _Hear from who_? Victor’s mind automatically starts to go through the possibilities. He realises it could be quite a few people—though he can’t even begin to figure who’d brag about it to a twelve-year-old.

Yuri wiggles the bottle and raises an eyebrow.

Victor exhales. On the one hand, he’s mad at the implication that he’s this easy: that he’d just drink whatever and go to bed with anyone. On the other hand, it might be kind of true. Plus the offer does sound kind of tempting—both the bottle, and Yuri’s willing ass.

Which doesn’t excuse the lack of respect. “I’m going to wring your neck one of these days.” Victor says. “Why would you even do this?”

“Well. If you keep drinking, you’ll take yourself out of the running by the time I hit seniors.” Yuri shrugs, completely non-plussed at how annoying he is. “Mostly, though, I was hoping to get my cherry popped. Or to piss you off enough to slam me into the lockers again. Whichever.”

“I’m not fucking a guy with a bowl cut; you look like you’re in fifth grade.”

And Yuri is hurt. The wind’s completely out of his sails—shoulders slumped, kicked puppy expression, the works. Victor takes pity.

“Listen, how about this. Let’s drop by my stylist on our way home, hm?”

Yuri’s about to open his mouth.

“I’ll pay,” Victor says. “It’s for my benefit, after all.”

“If you make me get something ridiculous-”

 _Like one can get more ridiculous than a bowl-cut_ , Victor thinks. “Nah, you talk to him, you guys agree on what’s good.” Just as long as it’s not this.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s hair, it’ll grow out. I’ll risk it if it means getting dick.”

Victor laughs and leads Yuri out the locker room, one hand on his shoulder.

  
________________

 

Sergei is a queen in his late forties—an actual, proper one; calling you “love” and “honey” and winking and waving his wrists. He's kind of like how Victor imagines a fifty-year-old Giacometti would be: bald, big-bellied, and generous with his good-hearted lechery.

“Ah, Victor, so glad to see you, love,” Sergei tells him in the wood-paneled reception lounge of his obscenely swanky studio. “Now stand still, let me look at you-”

The “let me look at you” has less to do with Victor’s hair than with Sergei circling him and ogling his ass. Nothing new there.

“Marvellous, marvellous as always,” Sergei concludes. “Now what can I do for you, love—I was just about to close for the day, but you’re always, always welcome…”

Victor puts one finger in the middle of Yuri’s shoulder-blades and pushes him forward. Then he pulls off his hoodie.

“I entrust to you Yuri Plisetsky, junior men’s singles world champion.”

“Ah.” Sergei looks at Yuri’s bowl-cut like people look at stage four cancer. “Well, do come through, darling,” he gestures to the studio proper, behind the crystal beads hanging at the door. “And you,” he turns and points at Victor, “sit down. I don’t want to hear a peep for the next forty minutes. This next part is between a stylist and his client.”

Victor settles himself in one of the lounge chairs—pink silk with gold embroidering, greeting Sergei’s clients for as long as Victor can remember—and listens with his eyes closed to Yuri and Sergei’s quiet voices drifting from the studio. He’s half-dozing, and half being acutely aware that there’s a bottle of booze in his bag and a security camera targeted on the front lounge.

He takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone to poke around Instagram. Lambiel cooking. _Like_. Weir in his outfit of the day, showing off his ass. Giacometti—surprisingly, not showing off his ass, just his cat. _Like, Like_.

Victor finds himself remembering his bi-monthly meetings with Sergei during the height of his formative years. He didn't really think, until now, how important it was that Sergei always had time for whatever pretentious gender-play idea baby-gay Victor came up with, and always made sure to heap copious praise on his ass. By the time Victor met Chris, he was absolutely comfortable with being perved on—and had let Chris eat out said ass to the utter satisfaction of them both, on multiple occasions.

Then Victor’s eyes land on the glasses next to the water dispenser.

Maybe he could somehow—right, because being caught on camera as you take a bottle of vodka out of your bag doesn’t look sketchy at all. Oh, well. He’ll just have to wait. Pity, though: it would have worked wonderfully with the pink comfy chair.

Victor’s in the middle of fantasies about relaxing on his couch with vodka in one hand and Yuri’s ass in the other, when Yuri finally reappears—artfully styled in a layered, messy cut, and completely red.

Quite cute, actually, both the cut and the blushing.

The hoodie is back over Yuri’s head the moment they step on the pavement. “Why did you tell him?” Yuri says, looking at his feet.

“Tell him what? What did he say?”

“To come back in six months to a year for a touch-up, and that he’d do it for free.” Yuri’s hands dig into his hoodie pockets. “That it’s important to look after my skin and my appearance so I can get good sponsorship contracts. And that I’m doing the right thing fucking you and I should watch you really well so I can learn as much as I can about professional skating.”

Victor laughs aloud—a real laugh, not the canned tinkle that he’s got for interviews and schmoozing. “Good advice, all of it. Especially the part where you look up to me and follow my example.”

“You wish,” Yuri snarks back, and Victor smiles wider.

“Fuck, that guy was weird.” Yuri half-shudders.

“He’s harmless.” Victor puts a hand on Yuri’s shoulder and squeezes. “You’ll get used to him. He’s over the top, but he’ll always go with what you want. And he’s really well connected; he hooked me up with most of my modelling gigs." Victor explains with a wave of his hand. "Then these gigs led to other gigs...” 

“Whatever,” Yuri says with the perceptiveness of a teenager who feels that an Educational Lecture's coming.

Victor pulls his hood down and ruffles his hair.

“Fuck off!”

Yuri jerks away and puts his hood back on. Victor can see he’s still blushing, and hard.

Off-handedly, he wonders what would happen if he presses Yuri into the wall, right here. Would Yuri struggle? Kick up a fuss? Grind his hips into Victor’s thigh when Victor pins him up against the wall? Little virgin Yuri, who stole him booze because he wants his cherry popped. It’s almost sweet.

Victor puts his hand back on Yuri’s shoulder. “I’m really looking forward to this, you know,” he rumbles and runs his thumb up and down the side of Yuri’s neck. “Are you looking forward to it, little Yuri?”

“Not little,” Yuri mumbles.

“Of course not.” _A true giraffe, all 148 cm of you_ , Victor thinks but doesn’t say.

“Fuck you.” Yuri turns his face to the side.

“Aww, you’re not getting scared, are you?”

“I’m not! Get a cab already, and I’ll show you.”

Victor smirks. “Will you fight me?” he asks Yuri as he stops at the curb, ready to flag a cab. “I like it when you fight me. When you’re under me and you don’t know if you want to grind into me or punch me in the face.”

“I’ll punch you in the fucking face alright.” Yuri steps a little closer and bares his neck to Victor’s thumb.

Victor smirks; waves his hand at a passing cab—and finds himself in the arms of a wily teenager who’s calculated the exact moment when Victor stopped paying attention so he can sneak a hug. Yuri clutches onto him and buries his face in Victor’s shirt.

“So that’s how it is, hm?” Victor teases as he ruffles his hair. Someone’s a tad more attached than simply wanting his cherry popped.

Yuri says nothing, just mashes his face harder into Victor’s chest.

Victor looks down to the top of his head: it barely comes up to Victor’s clavicles.

He puts one hand around Yuri’s shoulders and buries it in his hair—mostly to reassure the kid and put him out of his misery. But also because this Yuri-having-a-crush business is actually not so bad. Yuri’s got a good ass and a sassy mouth; it would not exactly be a hardship to have exclusive use of both.

 _Kid’s never been with anyone before_ , Victor thinks. So Victor can teach him. Train him to like it _exactly_ how Victor does. Make him into the perfect bratty bottom slut. The thought is heady: the anticipation, the power. The realization of how easy it would be, what with how bad Yuri’s got it and how bad he needs attention.

But first things first.

“Hey,” Victor says and pushes Yuri away from his chest. “I like you, too, but hold back in public. I can go to jail for this.”

Yuri steps back and looks down.

“Don’t sulk, now, we’ll have all the time we want at my place.” A cab pulls in front of them and Victor opens the front door for himself.

“When do you have to be home anyway?” he asks as Yuri slides in the back seat.

Yuri shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

Victor puts together “doesn’t matter” and “stole it from my grandpa,” and gives his address to the cab driver. It’s just a ten-minute ride; Yuri spends in on his phone, and Victor on contemplating the jackpot he’s hit without even trying.

Yuri’s grandpa drinks, and if he’s really passed out on the couch by the time Yuri’s home from practice, he’s unlikely to be much trouble. But Yuri still needs to be home by curfew. No one will let him into the kinds of bars and clubs Victor goes to. If he so desires, Victor can fuck him after practice, pack him off to his grandpa, then go out and score with someone else. Even if Yuri finds out, “people are starting to suspect, I did it for cover” should do it.

There’s no danger that Yuri would want to move in, or hang all over Victor: Yuri’s young, they need to refrain from public displays of affection.

In short, Yuri is low demand, low hassle, and easy to influence.

And then, there’s his ass.

Victor pays the cab when it stops in front of his apartment, and decides to keep him.

  
________________

 

They’re riding up the elevator in Victor’s building—it’s an old one, with a grate you pull across before you can move up. Most importantly, it's got no cameras.

Victor unzips his sports bag with a satisfied hum and takes out the stolen vodka. The first swig burns down his throat, and he feels better almost immediately.

He grins.

Then he passes the bottle to Yuri.

Yuri lifts it and swigs, too; wipes at his mouth—and Victor’s going to enjoy this so, so much: Yuri woozy and pliant and uninhibited, pushing his virgin ass up against Victor’s dick. Victor gets a little hard just thinking about it.

He takes the bottle back and drinks. Pulls Yuri by the front of his t-shirt, presses them together, hooks a finger under his chin and tilts it up.

Yuri’s lips are pink and parted, and wet from the vodka. His eyes are wide. Victor moves his hand so his thumb can rest on Yuri’s neck, against his racing pulse. Then he bends down and gives his new plaything his first kiss.

It’s only a nip; it’s all they have time for before the elevator stops on Victor’s floor, but Yuri moans into it anyway; raises himself on his tip-toes to chase Victor’s lips when Victor pulls away.

Makka has heard them already; there’s excited yipping and lots of tail-wagging at Victor as they enter—and some sniffing at Yuri’s hard dick, which Victor laughs at.

“Your dog is fucking weird,” Yuri concludes.

Victor takes the vodka from him and goes to pour himself a glass. “I’ll crate her later. Come help make dinner.”

“Dinner? You’re gonna fucking eat now?”

“Aa. And watch you suffer,” Victor says with a grin and a look at Yuri’s tented jeans.

“Fuck you,” Yuri grumbles but comes to the kitchen, which, as far as Victor is concerned, is a good sign. He’d protest just enough to make it interesting, but would ultimately go with what Victor says.

Viktor sets him up with some mushrooms and peppers to chop for an omelette, and sips his crappy vodka as he leans against the counter. He can get used to this: watching his dog eat and his boyfriend make dinner. While the omelette sizzles in the pan (Yuri turns out to be a decent hand at cooking—useful, that), Victor tosses up a salad and thinks of ways to torment him.

Tickling him comes to mind, and pinning him down while he kicks and struggles.

Yuri, the sneaky little shit, drinks from Victor’s vodka glass while Victor’s spacing out.

Victor takes it from his hand. Wouldn’t do for Yuri to get too drunk. “Weren’t you telling me what a loser I am for drinking just a couple of days ago?”

“You’re still a loser for drinking.” Yuri says as he plates their food. “You’re old, and you drink all the time. I only drink in the off season—and now, but now’s a special occasion. I’ll be getting dick.” Yuri grins.

“Not if you keep being an obnoxious little shit, you won’t.” It’s an empty threat, but it works like a charm to get him to shut up. So fucking easy.

It’ll be easy to get rid of him, too, when Victor decides he’s done: Yuri would surely believe it’s his own fault for sassing, even when Victor’s deliberately needled him and told him he likes it.

Victor chews his omelette—not bad!—and wonders why he hasn’t done this earlier. Adults can be such a pain in the ass in comparison. He grins at Yuri across the table and squeezes his hand to reward him for quieting down.

Just like Makka: basic training.

And just like with Makka, it works. Yuri grins back.

“Hurry up,” he says and shovels omelette in his mouth. “Let’s fuck already.”

“Brat,” Victor says and chews.

“Loser Boozer.”

Victor rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his vodka. “Say that to me again after I wipe the ice with you in seniors.” Yuri’s wrong anyway. Twenty-five is not old. Plus WADA only prohibits alcohol in-competition. There’s nothing wrong with the occasional sip or with having a drink at night to relax, as long as it doesn’t impact your training.

And it’s not impacting Victor’s training.

He’s still the best.

Still the reigning champion.

“You tell yourself whatever you want,” Yuri says and pushes his plate away. “Coming? Or are you scared you’re too old to get it up?”

One day, Victor thinks, the little shit’s going to be on this knees in the middle of the kitchen, choking on Victor’s cock. But until then.

“Get your clothes off and go wash your ass, then wait for me upstairs. I’ll come up as soon as I sort out the dog.”

“Screw the dog,” Yuri whines.

“Do you want her nose in your ass? No? Cause that’s what’s gonna happen if you leave a dog uncrated while you fuck. Your butt’s gonna be in the air and she’ll think you’re saying hi. Don’t fancy that, do you—so do as you’re told.”

And Yuri does—even though he’s a little miffed. Victor’s miffed, himself, for being denied a fight he could easily win.

He whistles for Makka and locks her in her crate, then puts his phone on speaker as he busies himself with the dishes.

“Yakov, hello!” he says in his cheeriest, most PR-grade voice. “It’s Yuri… Yeah… He stole some vodka from his grandpa, and showed up at my place in quite a state. So he’s here, now, sleeping it off. Do you mind calling his grandpa to let him know Yuri’s okay?… Yeah… Yeah, I’ll bring him in tomorrow, as soon as he’s done puking his guts out…” He laughs his media laugh aloud. “I agree, training with a hangover should be quite educational!… Alright, Yakov, thank you… yes, I’ll see you tomorrow at the rink… Have a good night, Yakov.”

“Asshole!” Yuri pads over in his underwear—and oh, is he pissed. “Why the fuck did you do that!” Because it takes the heat away from me, Victor doesn’t say. “Now Yakov’s gonna shout at me and watch my every fucking move-”

 _Exactly_ , Victor thinks. _He’ll be watching you, and I’ll be “the responsible adult”_. “Do you want to sleep here tonight or not?” he says. “I thought you did.”

Yuri pouts.

“Now when you’re all good and fucked out, you can crash in my bed instead of trekking all the way to your grandpa’s. And then tomorrow morning, we can do it again. We can go late to practice, we have an excuse—you’re “hangover”.

Yuri glares.

“Say, ‘thank you, Victor; how thoughtful of you, Victor-’”

“Fuck you, Victor,” Yuri mumbles begrudgingly.

Victor laughs at him. “Come on, come here—now we’re all set. We’ve got the whole night to ourselves.”

  
________________

 

Yuri loses his Virginity in Victor’s bed and nods through Yakov’s lecture after: it’s only fair, Victor thinks, for having left him to bear the brunt of Yakov’s wrath last time.

Practice this morning is quite fun.  Yakov’s downgraded Yuri to doubles and triples to embarrass him for his “hangover,” but the real beneficiary is his ass—thoroughly abused, once the night before and twice this very morning.

Yuri winces and glares at Victor every time he lands a jump.

Victor watches him, amused.

“Next time it’s your turn to get fucked, asshole,” Yuri grumbles as he skates past him.

There’s so many things Victor could have said, up to and including, _quite optimistic, thinking that_ _your tiny prick will_ _make a dent_. “Next time?” he says instead and raises an eyebrow.

It's good, keeping the kid on his toes. It builds character.

Or something.

 

____________________

 

Of course there’s a next time. Yuri’s too good a catch for Victor to pass up, and too horny to drop it without at least a token fight. He shows up at Victor’s a couple of days later with a vodka bottle and takes a swig as he passes Victor at the door.

Makkachin trots over and yaps at him.

“Your dog hates me,” Yuri says as he toes off his ratty sneakers.

Victor shrugs. “You smell like cat.”

They end up chopping vegetables for a stir-fry, Yuri all but stomping his foot at Victor and Victor being difficult just to tease him. “Come on, teach me how to do it right,” is what flatters him into caving in at the end.

Upstairs in bed, Yuri is awkward and fumbling, and comes approximately twenty seconds after his dick makes it into Victor’s ass. Victor laughs and teases, then guilt-trips him into giving him a blowjob, "to make up for it".

After Victor’s had time to rest, Yuri comes once again on his cock.

Victor gives him change for a cab. "You're an athlete; surely, you'll do better next time," he tells Yuri as he sends him off.

Feeling well-fucked and content, he stretches out on his couch with his dog’s head on his lap. He can get used to this. He can _definitely_ get used to this, he thinks as he sips on his vodka.

  
__________________

 

This thing with Yuri keeps having unexpected benefits, Victor concludes a couple of weeks later.

Yuri is enthusiastic and eager, and takes to being fucked like Makka takes to peanut butter. Now that he’s taking it on the regular, his ass isn’t so sore and he’s much less of a pain—mostly to the benefit of Yakov’s incipient aneurism.

“He’s matured so much,” Yakov tells Victor with avuncular pride in his eyes, and starts paying more attention to him now that he's gotten easier on his nerves. Victor is left to his own devices—exactly what he always wanted.

Victor's mood improves greatly, now that a has-been who’s never had to jump more than a double axel in his life isn’t telling him how to skate.

Unexpected benefit number two is how Yuri keeps showing up at Victor’s with booze. It's not very good booze, but Victor doesn’t have to worry about getting it on the sly without tipping off the tabloids. Yuri doesn’t drink much of it either: says he doesn’t want his grandpa to bust him.

Victor’s budget is looking good, too, now that he doesn’t have to wine and dine annoying idiots when he wants to get laid.

In a fit of gratitude, Victor gives Yuri cash for new trainers.

They are leopard print and patent leather, and make Victor wince every time he sees them, but Yuri is so proud.

  
Unexpected benefit number three is just how low-drama the entire thing turns out to be.

Victor says, “don’t just show up, I might not be home,” and Yuri doesn’t kick up a fuss or whine about how “everything needs to be on your terms, I need you to be available to me, sometimes, too.” He leaves Victor alone when Victor wants to. Waits for _that look_ during practice.

He gets it, too, more often than not, and paradoxically ends up at Victor’s more than any other previous lover, precisely because he’s not being demanding and a pain.

Victor teaches Yuri how to do a quad toe at the rink, and how to deep throat after practice, and praises him for how fast he’s improving at both.

He expected enjoying the power of dispensing knowledge. Kind of expected liking the vulnerability behind Yuri's spite and bravado.

But he didn't expect how proud it makes him when Yuri tries, and gets it right. 

  
__________

 

Victor takes his GPF gold with bags under his eyes and a ton of concealer. _He’s in peak form as usual; tops men’s singles as expected_ , the media agrees.

“Honestly, you’re such an idiot,” Yuri tells him, his second junior gold around his neck.

Victor swigs duty free whiskey from his flask. Yuri may not have a bowl cut now, but he’s still not going to tell him what to do. “Again: who was even a competition?”

“Alright, alright, I’m sure you know best,” Yuri says, placating, and Victor feels like he wants to strangle him.

He takes petty revenge by spending all night flirting with the Japanese loser who scored last and who’s even drunker than Victor.

“Loosen up, it’s just for show,” he tells Yuri when he fumes, and proceeds to mock him for making a fool of himself at the “dance-off.”

When Yakov sends Yuri off to bed and the unfortunate Japanese guy passes out at a table, Victor fucks Giacometti.

  
______________________

 

The day after, Yakov's somehow found out about his flask, and is on Victor's case all. the. fucking. time. He lectures, he starts doing spot checks of Victor’s bag, and threatens to tell the skating federation—something that he knows full well will threaten Victor’s funding.

The only thing that makes this shitshow bearable is Yuri, who rides his dick like a pro and brings him vodka so he can fucking relax.

  
_________________

 

Victor gets gold at Worlds two months later, and celebrates with Giacometti.

Blissfully, the only thing Chris wants to talk about is his ass.

  
_________________

 

Now that it’s officially the off-season, Victor’s looking forward to kicking back and, at least temporarily, putting all of this shit with Yakov behind him.

Even though Victor didn’t invite him, Yuri shows up with gin, vodka, blue curacao, and pineapple juice, because he’s googled some recipe for shots that he wants to try, to celebrate both their golds.

Victor orders pizza and cheese sticks and garlic bread—because fuck broccoli and omelettes—and they get gloriously, marvellously smashed.

Then Yakov shows up out of the blue, banging on the door and making concerned faces at Victor; invites himself in and starts talking about rehab, with this cajoling, condescending voice—and Victor's managed to hold it in for so fucking long- but they do get into a shouting match, now.

Victor's on his own time. It's the off-season. But most importantly, he's fucking _done_ being patronized by a geezer who'd have been replaced ages ago if the feredation wasn't run by geezers even more useless than him.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Yuri sneaks out, and Victor’s gonna kill that little shit—and he must have said this aloud, because Yakov says it’s not Yuri’s fault, and to look at himself—and Victor is so angry-

  
_______________

 

He wakes up the next morning with his head pounding and the realization that he fired Yakov—and by extension, the federation—and would now have to look for a new coach and pay them.

He rubs his face, feeds his dog.

Pours himself a small vodka, just to clear away the worst of his hangover.

It’s not so bad, he concludes, resting on his couch with his hand in his dog’s fur and the vodka working its magic on the thumping in his head. He just needs to give them time, and they’ll come begging. They need him. Who’s Russia going to rely on—Georgi?

He’s not worried.

He spends the month preparing, choreographing programs for the next season in his head: Agape, and Eros.

 

________________

 

The new training season is about to begin, and the Federation hasn't called. It’s a fucking power play—they want him to cave in first, like he’s stupid and he doesn’t know who needs who here.

Georgi calls, however: to invite him clubbing, and to tell him that they're raising fifteen-year-old Yuri into Seniors—the youngest senior athlete in his generation.

That night, Victor and Georgi get blazingly drunk. “God, I’ve always wanted to do this,” Georgi says from the floor of a bathroom stall, looking up starry-eyed as he closes his mouth on Victor’s dick.

It’s not how Victor likes it. It’s not Yuri. But it’s good.

It’s good.

  
_______________

 

Giacometti texts him a youtube link the morning after. It’s the Japanese loser, now fat, skating Stammi Vicino with such earnest sincerity Victor feels embarrassed for him.

 _Be mai koochi, Bii~ktoruu_ , he remembers hearing at some drunken banquet or other.

He watches the video again.

He narrows his eyes.

He texts Giacometti back to ask for this guy’s address, and calls the movers to pack his stuff for Japan.

  
_____________

 

The Japanese guy—Yuuri—is stiff and painfully shy, and won’t sleep with him.

Victor drinks his father’s sake and calls him piggy out of spite. He smiles widely as he does it, and doesn’t think too hard about where the spite comes from or who it’s really directed to.

But this guy refuses to be moved or needled, and it drives Victor mad.

Then, just as the guy finally starts loosening up, Yuri shows up and says, “You promised.”

He gets put to sleep in a cupboard, because prim and proper Yuuri turns out to be an underhanded asshole, but he sneaks into Victor’s room anyway.

“He seems to admire you a lot,” Yuri says, tilting his head in the direction of Yuuri’s room as he unties his robe. “Did you tell him? About why you’re really here?”

The robe drops to the floor and Victor growls, because he’s gonna fucking kill this fucking kid, he really will. And then they’re on top of each other, Yuri pulling on Victor’s robe and moaning in his mouth; clutching his legs around his waist as Victor rolls them over.

Yuri’s come prepared.

His ass is lubed and stretched, and Victor’s dick sinks in like butter.

It’s good.

It’s so fucking good.

Victor’s taught this kid everything he knows about sex, and everything Yuri does, from the sass to how he makes Victor want to strangle him; how he needles Victor then meets his thrusts and goes, “Fucking harder, fuck yeah!”—everything is _perfect_ ; exactly how Victor likes it.

Victor’s forgotten what it’s like to let go; to growl and bite and snarl, pumping someone full of his come.

He didn't know how much he'd missed it.

“You promised,” Yuri says again when they’re both fucked out, collapsed on top of each other.

Victor digs his fingers into his well-worked hole and feels his come leak out.

Neither of them has anything left to give—neither of them ever does— but Yuri still rocks lightly on his fingers.

“You promised.” He looks into Victor’s eyes.

Victor did. So he teaches Yuri Agape, and with the last dregs of his selflessness, makes him watch as he lavishes praise and attention on Yuuri.

Just like Victor thought he would, Yuri lets it get to him and fails.

Relieved to have done the right thing for once, Victor sends him back to Russia.

  
______________

 

Yuuri doesn’t talk to him about his drinking. Instead, his mom only puts out a single bottle of sake for dinner: for Victor and for Yuuri’s dad, and a small cup for herself.

Victor knows what’s going on here. His entire chest is coiled with tension; his mind starts making plans—can he sneak into the kitchen? Go to the convenience store?

Toshiya watches him, his eyes kind.

Victor’s too ashamed to ask for more.

  
_____________

 

This is what he does, in the end:

He matches Yuuri move for move at practice. By the time dinner rolls around, Victor is exhausted and excuses himself to sleep almost as soon as they're done eating.

He repeats this the next day, and the next.

It's a bitch, and Victor hates it. 

Eventually, his mind clears.

Yuuri starts to smile at him more, and they take walks on the beach, Makka ever-present by their side.

Victor remembers choked moans, bottles of vodka, and sweat. Puts things together: when Yakov found out, when he came to Victor’s place and busted them.

Wonders if Yuri fucked him over or did him a favor.

The day after, he goes running with Yuuri and tries to forget.

  
________________

 

  
Performance anxiety aside, Yuuri is the calmest person Victor’s ever met. Yuuri won’t be needled, and he doesn’t fuck—he makes love, and is made love to. 

Little by little, Victor gets calmer, too.

Nothing like this has ever happened to him in his life. He'd never even thought he'd want to live this way, least of all like it.

He’s in the back yard one day, when Yuuri comes out with a box of matches and a pile of posters. “I asked Victor to be Victor,” he explains. “So I have to look at Victor and only see Victor, too.”

The posters burn.

Victor stares into the fire.

  
_________________

  
Yuuri is a doer, not a talker, so he buys them rings when Victor cries in Barcelona.

“A good-luck charm,” Yuuri says as if that explains anything—and to Yuuri, it probably does.

Then there’s Minako and Mari by a restaurant window, and inside, there’s Yuri—chummy and friendly with the Kazakh guy, laughing at his jokes and hanging on his every word.

Something ugly rises up in Victor. “My Yuuri and I will marry, when my Yuuri wins gold,” he announces to the room with the brightest smile he’s got.

  
_______________

 

Yuri breaks down sobbing on the ice. Victor doesn’t need to see the scores. He knows what Yuri just did—what he’s had to do in the last year.

This Yuri is leaps and bounds ahead of where Victor left him, and Victor is proud.

“I’ll work hard, I can do it, I’m better than him,” Yuri pleads into his neck. “Please. Come back to Russia. Coach _me_ ,” he says, his voice small, and the ugliness in Victor melts away.

He holds Yuri.

Smells his hair.

Sees the Kazakh skater look at them, fists balled, shoulders squared, his eyebrows in a firm line.

Sees Yakov look at him and purse his lips.

Breathes in the fresh scent of Yuri’s sweat-

-and lets go.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dear recipient,
> 
> I hope you like this. My asshole Victor tends to come out a little differently than yours, but I hope you still enjoy it.


End file.
